Reviews are based on multiple visits. Ratings reflect the reviewer's overall reaction to food, ambience and service.

“It's from the Yucatán,” says my waiter when I ask for his thoughts on the cochinita pibil. “It's a lot different than what most people might expect for Mexican food,” he continues, explaining how the pork is rubbed with achiote, wrapped in banana leaves and slowly roasted. Then he asks, “Have you been to the Yucatán?”

“I used to live in the Yucatán,” I tell him.

He looks at me more closely now. “You should try it then. See if it lives up.”

It does. The cochinita pibil at Gabbi's Mexican Kitchen in Orange is probably the best version of this classic Mayan dish I've ever eaten. It starts with better pork than most. The slow-cooked meat takes on a slight burned-orange color from the paste of achiote seeds that it's rubbed with. The pork is as tender as can be, formed into a cylinder along with garlicky white rice, all of which is surrounded by black bean sauce and a small mound of the requisite pink onions, tinted that color by sharp red vinegar. Off to the edge of the plate is a small ceramic spoon filled with habanero salsa.

When approaching this dish, it's hard to taste just one element at a time. Everything is so intricately woven together, it's one chromosome away from being a stew. Fortunately, all the flavors meld beautifully. And while the salsa on its own is spicy enough to melt your brain, by dabbing just a little bit at a time, this pinkish-orange purée becomes an inextricable thread in the colorful fabric of cochinita pibil.

Pork's legacy in Mexican cuisine is highlighted over and over at Gabbi's. There's another Mayan-style pork dish that involves achiote and habaneros, a loin that's quickly charred on the grill. It couldn't be more different. It arrives looking rather dark and sinister, but it is actually quite lovely and tender.

Still another variation of achiote-marinated pork is piled atop puffy tortillas called panuchos. And barbecued in the style of the al pastor taquerias, thinly sliced pork, along with shavings of pineapple, is stuffed into deliciously crispy gorditas that taste more like biscuits than tortillas.

I wish I were equally enthralled by the carnitas, but there's something too sweet about the meat for my taste. A waiter tells me the pork is marinated in lime juice. There's nothing wrong with that. It's simply a style that doesn't appeal to me when there are already so many other places in Orange County to get great carnitas.

In the case of the quesadillas, they always become something much, much more. The thick flour tortillas are made to order, with colorful pansies pressed into their dough, so that a faint outline of the flower can still be seen through the fine outer layer. Unfortunately, it's so dark inside the dining room at Gabbi's that most people never even notice the flowers, which in the near-abject darkness look simply like an ordinary blotch of char.

A dozen different tacos also are elevated to gourmet status, and although distinctly fancied up, they hold their own against their street-cart originators. My favorites are the tacos Puebla, in which nicely caramelized carne asada, bacon and linguesa are stuffed into handmade flour tortillas along with grilled onions. The ropa vieja tacos are a close second: braised beef short rib stuffed into fresh-from-the-griddle handmade corn tortillas.

The arrachera skirt steak is a classic. The steak is surprisingly tender and perfectly charred, served with a hands-free version of Mexican street corn.

The chile en nogada is textbook perfect, a big fat pasilla chili stuffed with a mixture of ground beef and pine nuts and topped with a creamy white walnut sauce and bright red pomegranate seeds. Whenever cream sauce, meat and fruit come together in a single dish, there is ample opportunity for everything to go wrong. But instead of tasting like dessert, as this dish often can, Gabbi's is a revelation, a window into the soul of Mexican cuisine.

The same could be said for a dozen dishes here, from the queso fundido to the churros. From a pure culinary perspective, Gabbi's is one of the more important Mexican restaurants in California. Chef Gabbi Patrick seems to have picked up where the celebrity chefs at Santa Monica's Border Grill left off. The trailblazing chefs of Border Grill switched their kitchen to autopilot several years ago, and now it just coasts, justifiably contented with where it's been. Gabbi's feels like the second or third leg of that adventure. Everything that comes out of the kitchen here feels fresh and innovative, even when the dishes are based on traditions that predate the revolution.

Obviously, a lot of people already know this, which explains why it's difficult to book a table at Gabbi's for dinner. It's practically impossible to reserve a Friday or Saturday night at a decent hour without at least a week's notice. (Lunch is easier.) Most of the time when I've tried to book such a table, I've been told the next available seating is two weeks away. Unfortunately, the person who has the task of turning people away doesn't have good phone manners. The response has always been one of indifference bordering on annoyance.

It's a nonchalant attitude that spills into the dining room again and again, such as when water glasses are never refilled (hey, we're eating habaneros over here!), when dirty dishes are allowed to pile up, when soiled silverware is rarely replaced, and when no one bothers to say goodbye – or even wave – when they see us leaving (and after we've just paid a fairly significant tab).

I ruffled a few feathers last November when, in my inaugural column, I wrote that the chips and salsa at Gabbi's left a bad taste in my mouth. A couple of Gabbi's staunchest defenders complained that I shouldn't be whining about chips and salsa in the first place because chips and salsa aren't even Mexican.

The birthplace of chips and salsa is irrelevant. Just as I've eaten great cochinita pibil in downtown Orange, where it wasn't invented, I've also eaten great totopos and salsa in Puebla, in Oaxaca, in Mexico City, in Veracruz, in Tulum, in Guanajuato, in Piedras Negras … . The point is this: the chips and salsa at Gabbi's are a disappointment. The tortilla maker at Gabbi's is probably the hardest-working woman in Orange County, and her handmade tortillas, which are used for tacos and quesadillas, are truly incredible. But the multicolored chips that land on the table for free taste too similar to those multicolored chips that Ralphs sells for Cinco de Mayo. And the salsa with them is devoid of heat, seemingly made for people who don't like Mexican food.

It's a terrible first impression. And first impressions are always important. I stand by my original claim.

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